Staring Down the Barrel of a 45
by Brittany Lynne Hobbs
Summary: Dean's back from Hell, and as if he wasn't already screwed up in the head, his thoughts lead him farther and farther away from safety, with a loaded gun in hand. Title based off of Shinedown song, not a songfic, though. Set in mid-season 4. Warning: Wincest mentioned. Possibly triggering to some people.


Alright, I feel I should explain myself here, but I don't feel like making it lengthy so you'll have to put up with a choppy author's note.

Yes, I'm back. No, I didn't think I would be back on FF. No, I'm not bringing my old stories back, except maybe one that I'm undecided on. No, I'm not getting back into that Critics United mess. I couldn't give less of a damn. Why did I leave - for reasons I no longer find relevant and will not be discussing.

I think that should sufficiently answer all questions. Thank you to anyone who kept me on their alert list to this day.

One other thing, I'm looking for a roleplay partner. Info in list form below:

Fandom - Supernatural  
Pairing - Wincest  
Character I would like to play - Dean  
Timeline: Personally, I'd like to set it anywhere within seasons one through five.  
Warnings - I fucking swear, dammit. Being okay with mpreg is great but not a dealbreaker for me, so either way, whatever. Also, I hate John Winchester. That is all.  
Preferred medium - Skype, Yahoo Messenger, doesn't matter. I might have an AOL account collecting dust somewhere if that's your thing.  
Format: Story, not script. (If you're unclear on the difference or what those are in general, please let me know, I'd be happy to explain)  
Misc. - It doesn't have to get NSFW. I'm cool either way. Please have semi-decent grammar. If you forget a comma or two, maybe miss capitalization on a few words, that's fine. But please try to have some grammatical etiquette. (i.e; I don't want to see "sammy got in the imapla and wen they got there he got out nd opened deans door,, cmon dean we got 2 go hunt this monstar")

PM me or leave me something in the reviews if this sounds like something you want to do.

*~end of shameless advertising~*

Wow, that was longer than I thought it would be. Now about the actual story... Combination of a lot of things and places of inspiration, this was created. (YES THE TITLE IS BASED OFF OF THE SHINEDOWN SONG, SHOOT ME, OKAY? ... Not literally, and no pun intended. xD)

Warnings: Angst. Wincest. Don't like don't read.  
Timeline: Oh, somewhere in mid-season 4, after Dean gets back from his little vacation in The Pit.

~Shoutouts~

Only one this time. DYLAN! I love you! You're frickin' awesome. Like, really awesome. I don't know what I'd do without you. Probs be off trying to get toast out with a fork. ... Again.

I'LL SHUT UP NOW AND GET ON WITH THE STORY! *Audience sighs in relief and claps slowly* 

* * *

Honestly, Dean thought he was exerting some extreme self control. There he sat on a motel bed, in a nowhere town right outside of Centralia, Pennsylvania, where their latest case had brought them. Something about an unpopulated town that suddenly had a population. Yeah, totally not a red flag there. They'd done their suit-and-tie dance that day in the town next door they were staying in, and now, around eight that night, they were back in the motel. Sam had gone out about five minutes ago to go pick up something to bring back for dinner, Dean was methodically cleaning, sharpening, oiling, and reloading whatever required it.

Of course, should emergency arise, and it wouldn't be the first time their motel door was broken down, he kept at least one loaded and right next to him. Currently in his hand was his baby- well, aside from the Impala. Colt 1911, given to him by John on his 18th. The thing was beautiful, despite its age, the ivory and engraved detail still shined like new. Dean made sure to keep it that way.

About that self control.

His thumb was on the small lever-type mechanism to release the magazine, which he had yet to unload, and the safety was still off. Careless, sure, but he was who he was- he'd been raised around guns, shooting since he was single digits. Standard rules were to be ignored, he told himself. Cleaning supplies spread around him on the bed and the nightstand, he had the intention of starting on the task.

Why not stall for a moment? He gave the gun a good hard look. His father's gun. Now his. He took better care of this gun than he did of himself. Hell, he took better care of everything and everyone better than he took care of himself. He pressed the end of the barrel to his temple, the cool metal against flushed skin almost... soothing. He was testing himself. Finger moving to the trigger, he made feather-light movements, not an ounce of pressure applied. He was already pushing his limitations.

What would happen if he pulled the trigger? He would get sent back down to hell. Would Castiel pull him out a second time? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about the angels at all, or how much they really needed him. He would see Alastair again. Where would he end up? Torturing or tortured? Would he make the same choice he did before?

He loved torturing. More than he would admit to Sam, himself, or anyone. He loved being tortured. Not entirely because he had masochistic tendencies, but because he had to. This was his punishment, for all his crimes. He deserved it. Drilled into his head for twenty years; protect Sammy. Not that he argued; he loved his little brother with all his heart and soul. But why? Why was his life so invaluable? There has to be a reason. Protect Sam, to hell with yourself.

The Dream Root had been right. So what if he was tripping in someone else's dreamworld domain. He'd been faced with himself and he was right.

_"I know how you look in the mirror and hate what you see. I know how dead you feel inside."_

_"Shut up!" he had growled_

_"Your own father didn't care if you lived or died, why should you?!"_

It had angered him at the time. But he couldn't deny it. He deserved hell. He deserved everything.

He deserved to pull this trigger. So what was stopping him?

Sam. His Sammy. His brother. His lover. His best and only friend. The last fucking family he had left. His anything, his everything, his whole goddamn world. He couldn't leave his brother alone in this world. It wasn't that he thought his brother to be incapable. It was that he felt the need to protect him. It didn't have a damn thing to do with John's orders, it never really did.

He was born to protect his brother.

He, with shaking hands, moved the gun barrel from his temple and stared at it for what felt like forever. Staring down the seemingly endless dark tunnel of the barrel, wondering what it would be like to watch a round coming at you, before it blew your brains to the wall behind you.

Before his thoughts could take him any farther, the door opened. Sam was back. In one quick motion, he clicked the safety and dropped the gun on the bed. Sam wasn't fooled, and Dean wasn't fast enough.

"What're you doing?" Sam asked, arching an eyebrow as he set the Styrofoam containers with burgers on the small, worn table in the room.

Dean shrugged and walked over, opening one up and taking a fry, "Maintenance. Can't have my gun jamming when I need it." he said, pouring himself a drink, back to Sam.

"You okay?"

Lie. Lie, you son of a bitch. Lie!

"No, I'm Dean." he smirked, taking a drink of the freshly-poured whiskey in his hand as he turned back to face his brother. He couldn't lie. He couldn't do that to his Sammy. He could lie to his own father quicker than he could lie to Sam. He refused to lie to his brother. So he used sarcasm instead and hoped the question would drop.

Sam didn't buy his shit. But he dropped it for now. Oh, he'd ask again later, but he was dropping it for now.

Dean could stare at that gun all he wanted. He could put it to his temple, to his forehead, stick it to the roof of his mouth or under his chin. But at the end of the day he couldn't pull the trigger.

All because he loved Sam more than he hated himself.


End file.
